


Like a Knife

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Gunkink, Gunplay, Humiliation, M/M, Shame, Things that happen in alleys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Valjean deals with Javert.  Or what could have happened in the alley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Knife

Javert sees him across the cobblestones. Of all the men here, at the barricade, it is Valjean who stands there staring at him.

Of course, this is how it would end.

The noose at his neck tightens and Javert knows the end is near indeed.

He waits on his knees, head bowed.

* * *

 _Javert_. Bound and on his knees, with a noose around his neck, a prisoner at last. Yet there is still the hostile look in his eyes and Valjean knows nothing’s changed. Javert will die, proud and unwavering in his belief that he is the righteous man. Perhaps it’s true, but he will not die tonight. Valjean’s fingers tighten around the pistol they handed him. Yes, he will deal with Javert.

“Up,” he commands brusquely, pulling at the rope.

Javert stumbles after him, the rope tugging at his neck like a dog. He follows Valjean in confusion. Why isn’t the man simply shooting him there? Why take him off to a hole, unless he means to leave his body there to rot? He wouldn’t put that past Valjean. Probably Valjean means to piss on his corpse.

“I would have thought you’d execute me in front of your fellow traitors, not here in the dark.” He murmurs.

Valjean pulls the rope up sharp, jerking him to his knees. “Even now, you know nothing.”

It stings when it has no right not to. Yet Javert still objects most ardently; he knows all there is to about this man. There is nothing that he doesn’t know, and if there _were_ , it wouldn’t be important.

Valjean sees the look in his eyes and simply shakes his head, laughing.

“What?” Javert demands. How dare this man laugh at him now? “246,”

The rope at his neck is drawn up short and he can’t breathe, raising his bound hands to try pull desperately for air.

“Don’t call me that!” Valjean roars. His hand clasps Javert’s neck, slamming him back against the stone wall.

“It is all you are,” Javert wheezes. A number, nothing more. Not a man.

Valjean’s fury rises again. All these years he’s held it in. Now, with Javert before him, he can hold himself back no longer. His fist connects with Javert’s jaw, letting his head strike the stone again.

Javert spits blood and gazes up at him, waiting. “Go on.”

Valjean points the pistol at him. “So proud, inspector.” Javert would not beg for his life. Even now the man would not break. But what of shame? All those years of humiliation under the lash come back to Valjean there in the darkness of the alley. The knowledge that every day you were nothing, but filth beneath their boots, to be spat upon and forced to labor until his bones ached and his fingers bled.

Never once has Javert known that knowledge in his soul, and he never will.

 _But I could bring him shame_. The weight of the gun in his hand gives Valjean an idea.

“Open your mouth.”

The words are so soft, Javert swears he imagines them. But he doesn’t imagine the look in Valjean’s eyes. The man has something in mind, and for the first time, Javert does not know the man.

“What,”

“Open your mouth,” Valjean repeats stubbornly.

When Javert still waits, debating the matter, Valjean loses patience. He pushes the gun-barrel against Javert’s shocked, reluctant lips.

“Open,”

Wordlessly, Javert obeys. The metal is cool and heavy on his tongue. He’s filled with the potential danger, rising from his groin, the heat that promises death if Valjean simply pulls the trigger. His brains will decorate the wall, and his blood will splatter the man’s coat.

But for now, the gun head merely strokes along his tongue, weighing him down.

“Suck.” Valjean commands.

Javert splutters, but the look in Valjean’s eyes compels him and he does, knowing in this instant that he doesn’t want to die, even as the full weight of what he is doing falls heavily upon him.

Shame colors his cheeks as Javert hollows them, lips dry around the metal Valjean’s bestowed upon him. His knees ache, he’s rested on them for hours. Now he shifts, trying to even his weight. His head pounds, and the gun fills his mouth as Valjean towers over him.

Javert looks up at him, and in that instant, thinks, _what if it were him?_

His cheeks flood, and Javert looks down instantly. But he can’t _not_ think of it now, imagining that Valjean is forcing his cock between Javert’s lips, forcing Javert to suck him off, pleasuring a convict.

Javert chokes helplessly, struggling against his bonds, against the man keeping him here on his knees.

 _Why don’t you kill me?_ He wants to roar the question aloud, but can’t speak.

As for Valjean, he licks his lips, watching Javert mouth at the barrel head, watches the way the metal disappears between his lips, knows in that instant, he’s lost.

When Javert raises his eyes, Valjean hauls him upward by the rope, keeping the gun in his mouth.

Javert wants death, but Valjean will not oblige him.

He lets go of the rope, instead, his hand cups Javert through his breeches, finds him half-hard and resistant, and smiles.

Javert growls at him. He wants no part of this, but Valjean ignores him, cupping him harder, squeezing Javert until the good inspector starts to harden more.

 _No_. Javert feels faint, but the heat spreads through him, taking over until he is nothing but the gun in his mouth and the hand on his crotch, soothing him, drawing his lust out of his body until he leans in towards the hand involuntarily. It is the touch of the devil, but how he desires it.

He opens his eyes without even knowing that he had closed them and gazes into Valjean’s piercing stare. The man has his hand down his breeches, the insult; the _shame_ of it. Javert wants to yell, to attack the man, and yet, he does neither. He cannot.

Valjean’s thumb strokes along the trigger and Javert stiffens even as his cock thrusts eagerly against Valjen’s fingers. He watches that thumb move, pictures it slipping along his mouth, warm and demanding, and rough. The calloused fingers of the man slide achingly along his lip.

Broken, desperate, shame pervading his bones, Javert comes with a sob.

Valjean removes his hand from his breeches, gazing at it silently for a second. Before he wipes it across Javert’s cheeks, first one and then the other. It is a benediction of his shame. Valjean knows precisely what he’s doing to him, and Javert chokes again, as the gun slides out from between his lips.

There’s drool, and blood on his tongue. Javert spits on the ground as Valjean steps back.

Javert glares at him. Valjean regards him, but says nothing. Then he steps forward, drawing the knife from his belt, and Javert leans away from it. Sick with fear, yet unwilling to die. Even now.

Valjean cuts the bonds at his wrists, and then the rope at his neck, freeing him and condemning him at the same time.

He raises the pistol. “Go.”

“Why?” Javert rasps. His cheeks sting, and he wants to rub at them fiercely, to get the stink off him, but he won’t. Not in front of Valjean.

Valjean doesn’t answer him. “Go. Before I change my mind.”

Javert doesn’t risk another time. Valjean turns and stalks down the alley away from him, into the light of revolution.

Javert goes in the opposite direction, choked with regret and humiliation. His shame covers him, he has nothing left.

Nothing left, but Valjean.


End file.
